As night deepened, a crescent moon hung like a hook in the sky, casting its cold light on the silent path. Ye Nanqiao and Mu Jin walked softly and slowly, in sync with the old woman's pace, as if afraid to disturb the tranquility of the night.

The old woman's home was at the end of a narrow alley, a timeworn wooden house that seemed on the brink of collapse yet was filled with traces of a lived-in life. Ye Nanqiao gently opened the door for the old woman, carefully helping her inside. Mu Jin silently closed the door behind them, ensuring no chill would invade the warmth of the home.

Inside the old woman's dwelling, worn furniture and aged household items were scattered about, each item ordinary but exuding a warm sense of home. Ye Nanqiao and Mu Jin helped the old woman settle in, ensuring she had enough lamp oil and food before taking a seat.

However, amidst this space filled with the marks of time, an out-of-place item caught Ye Nanqiao’s eye — a finely crafted wooden crate, its paint still retaining some luster, starkly contrasting with the room’s other aged belongings.

The crate’s corners were delicately crafted, and the lock shone brilliantly, clearly the work of a skilled artisan, out of place in this room full of dusty and time-worn items. Even in a dimly lit corner, it couldn't hide its inherent radiance.

Ye Nanqiao approached and gently caressed the crate's surface, feeling the smoothness of the wood and the fine grain under her fingertips. The lid was adorned with intricate patterns and framed with metal, revealing its origins from a world far more opulent and complex than this humble home. It sat quietly there, and Ye Nanqiao, unable to resist, slowly opened the crate — only to find it filled with assorted old objects.

“That's a crate my nephew brought back,” the old woman said, following Ye Nanqiao’s gaze towards the box.

In the shadow, Ye Nanqiao's gaze wandered among the old objects, the slivers of light casting the leather shadow puppets in a play of hide and seek, silently narrating a silent tale of the past.

The old woman's voice echoed in the quiet room, as if coming from a distant place, laden with the weight of years and an indescribable melancholy: “That boy, he’s always loved shadow puppets. I remember the content smile on his face whenever he played with them, as if he were more free in those moments than any other.”

The old woman's voice was deep, filled with an unspeakable poignancy.

“Did Chen Quanan also learn shadow puppetry?”

She nodded. “In his youth, he studied the craft under Master He for a few years, then went to the South under serendipitous circumstances. Poor boy, he never had much, sold everything he had, but always carried with him this set of puppets his master gifted.”

Mu Jin approached silently, touching each puppet gently — it was a set depicting “The Romance of the Magpies,” yet conspicuously missing one: the Weaver Girl. She exchanged a knowing glance with Ye Nanqiao, her brows knitting together slightly.

Ye Nanqiao, sensing something, leaned in closer, her eyes flickering with complex emotions, as if piecing together a puzzle in her mind, yet missing several crucial pieces.

“Could this missing Weaver Girl be…”

In a world of unpredictable twists, this too-perfect coincidence hung heavily in the air. Ye Nanqiao looked at the old woman, seeing her eyes red with weariness, and all questions and speculations fell silent.

Ye Nanqiao’s voice softened: “Please rest assured, old mother. We will do everything we can. Chen Quanan... he won't be harmed.”

With those words, Ye Nanqiao and Mu Jin slowly rose to leave. As they stepped out of the house, they didn’t look back, but the missing Weaver Girl puppet hung like a silent question mark in the night sky, awaiting its resolution.

As the dawn broke, Ye Nanqiao and Chen Geng made their way to the county jail, where they found Chen Quanan. The cell was cold and damp, with only a few slivers of light piercing through the narrow windows. Chen Quanan sat huddled in the shadows, his hands clasped tightly around his knees, his body trembling slightly.

Ye Nanqiao and Chen Geng stood side by side outside the iron bars, their figures elongated and distorted by the light. Chen Quanan looked up at them, a glimmer of hope flashing in his eyes.

Ye Nanqiao was the first to break the silence of the cell. Her voice carried a unique warmth, like a breeze in spring, bringing a hint of warmth even behind the cold iron bars: “You must be Chen Quanan. Your aunt sent us. She has asked us to bail you out.”

Her gaze fixed on Chen Quanan, trying to read more from his reaction.

Chen Quanan's eyes welled up with tears, but before he could express his gratitude, Chen Geng's voice, stern and sharp, cut through the brief moment of warmth. “Chen Quanan, tell me, were you in the dense woods outside Fengxiang Courtyard on the morning of the seventh day of the first lunar month?” His tone was steady, his eyes piercing.

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Chen Quanan shook his head stiffly, his lips quivering as he forced out his words, “No, I wasn’t there.”

“Think carefully before you speak. Any concealment now and we might not be able to help you,” Ye Nanqiao cautioned, pulling out the broken Weaver Girl puppet from her sleeve.

At the sight of the puppet, Chen Quanan's gaze froze. His complexion turned from pale to ashen. He tried to speak, but no sound came out, and he seemed to lose all his strength, collapsing into the endless darkness and silence.

Ye Nanqiao and Chen Geng exchanged a glance. Ye Nanqiao leaned in closer, her voice soft but firm: “If you have been wronged, this is your last chance to speak.”

Chen Quanan trembled, as if struggling to dredge up a fragment of memory from the abyss. Finally, he hung his head, his voice mixed with confusion and fear: “It was me, I pushed that gentleman down, but I, I didn't confirm if he... I was so scared, I ran away.”

His confession rippled through the stillness of the cell, continuing, “I thought... I thought no one would find me. I almost turned myself in, but my aunt is old, she can't bear this.”

Listening to Chen Quanan's admission, Ye Nanqiao’s brows knitted slightly, sensing more to the story.

Chen Quanan's voice echoed in the quiet cell, like a low plea to the injustice of fate, awaiting some redemption. They knew the truth was more complex than it appeared, just beginning to emerge.

“Did you see anyone else there at the time?” Ye Nanqiao pressed.

“There was someone. I saw them coming and ran without seeing clearly,” Chen Quanan replied, his gaze lost as he tried to recall, “He was tall, staggering as if drunk…”

Ye Nanqiao and Chen Geng exchanged a glance, understanding that in that small town, a tall figure striking enough to be remembered was rare. And certainly, Hua Hai, with his short stature, didn’t fit Chen Quanan's description.

“You’re sure of his tall figure and unsteady steps?” Chen Geng probed.

Chen Quanan nodded, his voice laced with despair, “Yes, I'm sure. I pushed him, that's the truth. I'm willing to face the consequences. But when I fled, I didn’t know what happened to him…”

But Ye Nanqiao and Chen Geng knew the truth was not so simple. Wang Li's death wasn’t caused by a mere fall, but a sword wound was fatal. Aware of this, they chose to keep silent, not revealing the sword wound to Chen Quanan.

As they prepared to leave, Ye Nanqiao whispered to Chen Geng, “Given the gravity of this matter, he should be transferred to the prefectural jail to avoid any complications.”

Chen Geng agreed, “Indeed. I'll arrange for his transfer once we're back at the office.”

Exiting the jail, they left unaware that shortly after their departure, a clerk hurried in, carrying a food box. His shadow, elongated by the light, fell across the iron bars of the cell. The warm food inside the box emitted a scent that was both ordinary and ironic in the merciless cell. The clerk's gaze carried both haste and unease, as if performing a routine task to feed the prisoner, yet also subtly executing a deeper, secret mission.

The heavy wooden door closed slowly, casting an oppressive atmosphere over the prefectural hall. Ye Nanqiao and Chen Geng sat opposite each other at a desk, their contemplative faces illuminated by the dim light of the flickering lamp.

Chen Geng stroked his chin, his brows furrowed with concern. "Chen Quanan's words corroborate with Hua Hai's testimony, suggesting a third person was indeed present at the scene. However, our information is too scant, the figure too vague. How do we proceed?”

Ye Nanqiao, with her arms crossed in front of her, gazed into the void as if trying to penetrate the fog of mystery. “The chaos at the scene has left us with nothing but disjointed clues. We cannot fully trust Chen Quanan's words, nor can we completely disregard them. Seeing his earnestness today, he doesn’t seem to be lying. Hence, he might not be aware that Wang Li died from a stab wound."

“Hua Hai…” Chen Geng mused, his eyebrows knitted tightly. “His testimony is crucial, but we cannot be certain if his words are driven by fear or other motives."

Ye Nanqiao stood and paced to the window. “Fear can make people speak against their will, but the truth often lies hidden in the details. I think we should interrogate Hua Hai again; perhaps new revelations will emerge."

Chen Geng nodded, picking up a token from the table and standing up to hand it to Ye Nanqiao. “This is my authority token. Take it. It will grant you unrestricted access to the cells. I shall not accompany you; instead, I'll send someone to bring Chen Quanan here immediately."

Ye Nanqiao accepted the token, her grip firm, and then departed.

As Ye Nanqiao entered Hua Hai's dim and sparse cell, he was still dozing in a pile of straw, murmuring incoherently. The wounds on his body had mostly healed.

She gently shook his shoulder. “Hua Hai, wake up. I have urgent questions for you.”

Hua Hai rubbed his bleary eyes and looked up at her, his gaze bewildered. “Miss Ye, what’s so urgent? Did you find the murderer?”

“Not yet,” she replied, handing him a bowl of water. After he regained some clarity, she asked slowly, “I need to ask you some questions. Be precise and don’t hide anything. You mentioned seeing someone running away. Can you describe that in more detail?”

Hua Hai sipped the water, straining to remember. After a long pause, he finally spoke. “That shadow... I don’t know if it was a person because it wasn’t moving swiftly like a normal person. It swayed unsteadily, disjointed, like a shaking tree shadow.”

Ye Nanqiao’s brow furrowed, knowing every detail could be the key to solving the case. “Anything else?”

Hua Hai shook his head. “That’s all I remember. If it was a person, maybe they were drunk, or drugged, or, at worst, a cripple…”

“A cripple?” Ye Nanqiao gasped, a sudden image flashing before her eyes. But before she could react, a commotion erupted in the cell, interrupting their conversation.

Rushing to the source of the disturbance, Ye Nanqiao discovered Chen Quanan, just returned by the guards, collapsed on the floor. A neatly folded envelope fell from his grasp. She squatted down, picking up the dust-covered letter:

“To my regret, Chen Quanan. On the seventh day of the first month, greed led to disaster. In this situation, remorse comes too late. The sword is hidden under the stone in the dense forest, the evidence of my guilt. I cannot face my aunt in this life; only death can atone for my sins. Alas!”